


the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

by misbegotten



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Pining, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: James Hathaway meets a spirit, nearly gives up the ghost, and faces some truths that have been haunting him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to dine for being an enabler, beta reader, cheerleader, and friend. All errors remain, of course, my own.

_Part I: The spirit of her invincible heart guided her through the shadows. (One Hundred Years of Solitude)_

James is standing outside the nick, inhaling a much-needed hit of nicotine, when a voice startles him.

"Boo," she says.

He coughs on the inhale, takes a breath, and coughs again. "Where did you come from?"

The girl is nondescript in a pretty way, the sort a bloke might look once at but probably not twice. Then again, as James regards her she sort of… shimmers. 

All right. Definitely more than meets the eye here. And how on earth did she manage to sneak up on him?

"May I help you?" he inquires politely. He may be on a break, but he is a public servant. Not at the behest of girls on the pull, but still--

She filches his cigarette, so deftly that he has no time to react, and grins as she finishes it. "You should quit, you know," she advises him gravely, her tone belying the look of mischief on her face. 

Right then. "Ma'am, if you need assistance perhaps you can go to the front?" he suggests. A little more firm than polite now.

She pinches the end of the cigarette and puts it carefully away inside a pocket. She's wearing a black t-shirt, black dungarees, and a black scarf pulling back her nondescript hair. Really, as a detective he should be able to identify the colour of her hair. "Nondescript but shimmery" is not sufficient.

"James Hathaway, I am here to give you some advice. Or rather, a bit of forewarning."

"Who are you?" he demands. Nutter. A nutter who knows his name and has accosted him immediately next to his place of work. He wonders if her pockets are large enough to hide a weapon.

"Rie." She offers a hand, at which he stares. She continues to hold it out.

"Ree?" he echoes.

"Rie," she corrects him, putting a slight trill on the sound that he cannot hope to duplicate. She's still holding out her hand.

He sighs. "You know my name, of course." He takes the tip of her fingers.

The world blurs.

"What the f--" he begins. And doesn't finish, because everything has shifted. No longer at work. Suddenly standing outside Robbie's flat. But it's not Robbie's flat, precisely. The brickwork is a little more faded, the paint a bit more drab. The plant that Dr. Hobson had optimistically given him for the front stair is absent, perhaps the hint of a ring where a flower pot once rested. "Who? What? How?"

"Rie. **Ghost of Christmas Future**! Same answer." She looks rather pleased with herself. She drops his hand, which he belatedly realizes he's been clutching, and chuckles softly. "Not really the Ghost of Christmas Future," she amends. "But same principle."

James realizes abruptly that Robbie is home. Which isn't right, of course, because Robbie is back at the station. 

"We're in the future," he says flatly.

She smiles brightly in answer. Her smile dims, however, as she looks toward the flat, Robbie's figure visible through the window. The guv is sitting in a chair, facing the telly.

"Aye," she says. "The future. A future." She takes his hand firmly and yanks, pulling him up the step. Before he realizes what is what, she's taking the door handle and pushing the door open.

"You can't just--" he sputters, but Robbie doesn't even blink as they enter the room. The television is playing a documentary about cricket. Robbie isn't paying attention. His eyes are closed. He's obviously dozing slightly. Until his mobile rings.

James starts, but again Robbie takes no notice of the two figures standing before him. As Robbie fumbles for the phone, James begins to take in details. Hair, greyer and a little more sparse. More wrinkles, endearing but obvious. Tremors in his hands.

"'Lo," Robbie answers, and his face softens slightly at the response from the other end. "Yes love, I'm fine. Just watching a fascinating programme about cricket."

The programme has moved on to something obviously designed for a younger, more foolish audience.

"No pet, there's no need. I'm fine." James watches the lines around Robbie's mouth tighten. "No, I won't. No." The voice on the other end continues until Robbie says gently, "Lynn, _this_ is my home." He listens absently while Lynn continues to talk, but he's wedging the mobile under his chin and fiddling with a glass on the small table next to him. 

Glass and bottle, James realises. And Robbie's hand shakes a little more as he pours; he obviously steels himself when the bottle clinks noisily against the glass.

Robbie allows Lynn to talk herself silent, then with forced cheer says, "I'll let you get back to the nippers. Take care, love." He takes a long drink as he rings off. And then a longer one. Finally, he notices that the television is blaring nonsense and clicks it off with the remote, an annoyed grunt accompanying the motion.

He sighs, deeply. It troubles James to his core. It's a sigh of weariness and despair. While he's well familiar with the signs of fatigue in the guv, despair is not something James has seen often in Robbie and certainly not something that he wants to see now.

James' head is spinning.

By all the saints and angels…

Once you eliminate the impossible…

"Why," he says quietly, still expecting Robbie to leap up at their appearance in his flat, "does he look so…"

"Old?" Rie finishes. There's something in her tone. Something that sets him on edge. As if she's baiting him.

"Sad," James corrects.

There are three pictures on the table, next to the bottle. James notices them because Robbie stares at them as he takes another long drink. Since Robbie apparently can't see him, James risks a glance.

Lynn, husband, and two children. Expected. Val, in a posed picture that James has seen many times in Robbie's wallet. And, to his surprise, a framed photo of Robbie and James. Laughing. It is from the time James attempted to grow a moustache, a clumsy façade of maturing his young face. James twists his lips into dismay. It was worse than Robbie teased at the time. Note to self, he thinks glumly. Never again with the moustache. The picture, he remembered, was snapped by Sohal at Robbie's behest. He has never actually seen a copy of it. 

"That picture." He notices that Rie has started wandering around the room, tut-tutting to herself as if absently. "It should be his son." She glances back at him, giving him a wry smile, before returning to her perambulation.

Rie kicks something in the corner. As she does not seem particularly clumsy, James assumes this is her not-so-subtle way of drawing his attention to something she deems important.

It is rather important, as it turns out. It's James' guitar. A bit dusty.

What is James' guitar doing in Robbie's flat? 

"It's here because you're not," Rie says. 

Splendid, James thinks with exasperation. A smart-arsed spirit who can read his mind.

"And he's _sad_ ," she puts a horrible emphasis on the word, something dark and unhappy, "because he's lonely." She turns, regarding Robbie in the chair. "He drinks, because he's lonely." She waves a hand. "He stays in Oxford, because he's lonely."

"That doesn't make sense," James counters stubbornly. "You just heard Lynn. She was clearly trying to get him to move to… wherever."

"And when has Robert Lewis ever done anything he didn't want to do?" Rie asks archly. She shakes her head. "James, I can tell you one thing." She returns to his side, leans in closely.

He leans in too. As if Robbie can hear them. Which he obviously cannot. But still, there must be something terribly important in her next words. Something that will explain this mystery.

"James," she says softly. "Don't forget to breathe." And takes his hand.

The world blurs.

"Let's go," Robbie says, a tetch impatiently.

James blinks. He's behind the station. His cigarette, gone. And Robbie is looking at his sergeant with puzzlement and a bit of concern. 

"Hm?"

"Are you alright, lad?" Robbie steps closer, slipping car keys into his pocket to free a hand, placing it on James' shoulder instead. "I said we have to go. Parker's niece just called; he's gone down the Isis three hours ago for a walk and hasn't come back."

James feels muddled. "Fine," he manages. "I'm fine." He mentally shakes himself and gives Robbie a short nod. "Let's go," he agrees.

Robbie gives him a long sideways look as they drive to the river, but James has his mind on business. Definitely not on the faded look of old Robbie in his mind. Of grey, depressed, obviously ill Robbie. Lonely Robbie. Of a Robbie he cannot bear to contemplate.

With luck Geoff Parker, the husband of the deceased, is probably still close to the house. At least that is what they hope as they split up to search in both directions along the river. James has not gone far when he sees that Parker is indeed close. He is floating in the river, facedown.

James sheds his coat and kicks off his shoes before diving in. It is foolish. He should wait for help. Three hours the man has been missing. But James is sure he has seen Parker thrash in the water.

He swims quickly, reaches Parker and hefts the man into his arms. Parker's head comes up. He sputters. Thrashes again. And then does his damndest to dunk James' head under water.

James feels water in his mouth before he can think. He kicks away, trying to put distance between himself and the man, but Parker is stuck on him like a limpet. Muscular suction pulling him down, down. James struggles. As the water crashes over them and the river starts to pull them along the current, James' last coherent thought is an incredulous, "Don't forget to breathe?"

And then there is fire in his lungs. He's cold, sodden, and coughing. Retching, with hands turning him so he can expel water to the ground. A voice, dimly registering in his ear. Suddenly sharp, fierce.

"Breathe, damn you!"

And so he does. He takes in a shuddering breath, then another. Robbie is gathering his wretched form to him, in his arms, and James realizes that they are both shivering. Both drenched. "James," Robbie says, voice still fierce. "James, are you okay?"

James rests in Robbie's embrace and considers the question. Definitely not. Definitely not okay. Not only has he nearly died, but right now he is in the one place he has never dreamed he might be. Cradled close to Robbie, Robbie's voice urgent in his ear, saying his name over and over.

"James, I thought you were gone."

James coughs again. "Nearly was, sir."

The "sir" seems to animate Robbie, who takes a firmer hold on James and pulls him up into a sitting position. "All right, lad?"

He thinks of Rie's arch look. Bloody mind-reading spirits. "Fine," he lies. "I'm fine."

There are sirens wailing. James sees no sign of Parker. Robbie releases him slowly, as if reluctantly, as the sirens go wild and then James can make sense of little until a paramedic is shining a light in his eyes, asking him if he knows his name.

"Hathaway," he coughs. "Sergeant James Hathaway."

There's a hushed conversation between the ambulance driver and Robbie, and then James is being bundled into the vehicle despite his attempt at a protest. Robbie puts a firm, decisive hand on James' shoulder, urging him to still against the backboard the paramedics have placed him on, and they make the bumpy ride to hospital together. To James' surprise, Robbie keeps his free hand not so free. It's atop James'.

There are lights, and a bustle of movement, and more conversations that he doesn't quite remember, and when he finally comes to his senses it is in the dim environs of a single hospital room. Robbie is slouched in a chair next to the bed.

James licks his lips, wondering why nearly drowning has made him so thirsty. "Parker?" he asks.

Robbie's head rises quickly, and James realises with regret that he has been asleep. Dozing, really. His clothes, James realises too, are still damp.

"Parker is dead, the bloody fool." Robbie gets up, pours some water into a paper cup, and brings it over to James. "And you ought to be as well. You know the river. You know better."

His tone is quiet, but there's still that fierce edge to it. Just how close did James come to meeting his Maker, James wonders. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. He sips the water carefully.

Robbie crumples the cup once James has finished and tosses it neatly into a bin. "Bloody fool," he repeats.

"Sorry, sir." James feels dreadfully exposed in the hospital's paper dressing gown, suddenly. "I will endeavor not to repeat the adventure."

Robbie looks to the ceiling, as if for help. "Aye, let's not," he says. He looks down at his shoes, still sodden. No help there either, apparently, because his gaze finally rests upon James. "Another few seconds and I'd be training a new bagman."

"I would hate to put you to that trouble."

There's the flicker, just a small one, of a smile. "You would. But I always knew you were for me, anyway."

Oh, the rush those words send through James. As if Robbie can see straight into his heart. As if writ on James' face are all the words he has never dared speak to his superior, to the guv. To Robbie.

I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you forever.

There's a shock. There's the thing he has not wanted to admit, even in the darkest of his darkest nights. Loving Robert Lewis is bad for his soul. James can find no redemption there.

Breathe, he thinks firmly. Breathe normally, and move on with the world.

"Yes sir," he manages, and Robbie tilts his head, as if puzzled. As if James has started speaking in tongues. It wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen to James today.

Or perhaps… Robbie comes to the side of the bed and lifts James' hand. For an instant, James thinks perhaps Robbie is taking his pulse. To his utter astonishment, Robbie twines his fingers through James'.

"I nearly lost you." He tightens his grip a bit, careful not to press too hard but just cradling James' hand perfectly. "I don't think I could bear it."

"Good sergeants are hard to come by," James jokes. He does not want to joke right now, but his wits are nowhere about him.

"Aye," Robbie says gently. He lets go of James' hand. 

James is bereft. Damns his tongue. And his eyes, and his brain, and most of all his heart.

"Do you have a picture of me?" he asks abruptly. 

Robbie mutters "concussion" under his breath, but James reaches out and grabs his wrist in a tight hold. "A picture?"

Robbie's smile crinkles at the edges. "I may have a snap," he admits. "The tea strainer."

James remembers to breathe.

*

_Part II: If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. (Sonnet CXVI)_

James is in bed. His own bed, as Robbie had dropped him off at home once he was released from hospital. He has a thundering headache.

"Yeah, you should take something for that. Paracetamol?"

"Sunt mala quae libas." He peels open an eye.

Rie, lounging in a chair nearby, smiles cheerfully. "Whisky?"

"Scotch."

"Same."

"Scotch is made in Scotland," James retorts. "Go away." He fumbles for the night stand, pushes a few items around, and comes up with his specs. The world is less blurry, but no less painful. His chest hurts. His face hurts. His lips hurt. He wonders if Robbie gave him mouth-to-mouth. Of course Robbie did.

Thinking of his visitor, he quashes that line immediately.

"Vade retro satana," he tries.

She stretches out her legs and crosses her feet. "Doesn't work on me, love. And I'm certainly not Satan."

"Angel?" It's dubious. Would an angel wear all black?

She shrugs. "Never been accused of that."

He twitches the duvet cover into a better semblance of order and considers tottering to the loo. He is, unfortunately, naked and does not feel as though parading in front of her. "What are you then?" 

Rie tilts her head. "A shade, maybe. A bit of what I was, a bit of what I could be."

Black socks, he notes. She's wearing black socks and some sort of wellies. Ridiculous. "You've just described the future."

She grins. "Aye."

He fidgets. The loo is becoming a more pressing issue. "Thank you for the-- well, it wasn't really a warning was it?"

She regards him gravely. "And you want to know why I'm here now?"

James rubs his nose. "Yes."

She leans forward. "James, don't be afraid to be wrong." 

He sighs. He feels as though he has spent most of his life being wrong.

"You can go to the loo now," she adds. And disappears.

He considers throwing something at the blank space she has occupied. Instead, he reaches over and extricates the microcassette recorder he has had operating since he had the chance to turn it on. The tape whirrs back and he hits the play button.

Music. Acoustic guitar adaptation of Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor. "Quasi una fantasia," Op. 27, No. 2. 

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Infuriating shade, she is.

Despite Robbie's protests that James ought to take a few days more to recover, James stumbles into work and gratefully buries himself in paperwork as there is nothing more pressing -- like a disturbingly welcome but distracting murder-suicide -- to keep him occupied. Paperwork is hardly taxing, but by the end of the day James is knackered and Robbie carries him away back to his flat for takeaway curry (James' preference, he notes gratefully) and a mindless couple of hours in front of the telly.

The chair that Robbie, old Robbie, sat in is not there. Why had James not identified it as unfamiliar before? There's just the same rather uncomfortable couch, on which he and Robbie have spent many an hour unwinding.

Robbie insists on tucking a blanket around James, and James makes a sound of pleasure that he quickly turns into a grumble. "I'm not a child," he says. Petulantly.

"No, just a bloody-minded fool," Robbie agrees cheerfully. He settles next to James and clicks the programme to something "cultural" (again, James' preference, and he's secretly pleased).

Perhaps, James thinks, he needs to stop being secretive.

That leads to a whole new field of speculation, however. He has not, since his disastrous youth, worn his heart on his sleeve. His relationships have not been permanent. He has avoided entanglements. And yet here he is, too many years old, in love with his… Robbie.

It is love. He has to admit that. He's kept his feelings to himself for a host of sensible reasons, starting with the fact that Robbie does not fancy blokes. He's not, has never been, anything but earnest in his relationships with women as far as James can see. And has never given James any reason to think that if he even suspected how James felt, that he might reciprocate.

Then James thinks of twined fingers in hospital. And Rie, arch but urgent. Don't be afraid to be wrong. He marshals his thoughts, begins collecting points:

\-- He is utterly, frighteningly, embarrassingly afraid to be wrong.

\-- Robbie is starting to doze, despite his efforts to mother-hen James throughout the evening. This is usual. This is comfortable. 

\-- But other sergeants don't, as far as James knows, go home with the guv and kip on his couch. Not even after a dunk in the Isis. Much less as a normal part of their workaday life.

\-- Robbie's arm is slung across the back of the couch. James could easily reach out and touch his hand.

\-- From the moment he met Robbie, part of James has been his.

James stretches out an arm from beneath the blanket and places it carefully parallel with Robbie's. Robbie stirs; James freezes. Robbie breathes; James breathes. Robbie mumbles something and shifts, his hand grazing James'.

Robbie opens his eyes. But doesn't move his arm.

They watch the television. 

A half hour passes, and James is tense beyond measure at not moving. Finally, against his will, a yawn escapes his lips. Robbie notices immediately and sits up. James moves too, the blanket sliding away.

"I can take you home," Robbie says. As if James has any choice; they have come together in Robbie's car. 

The choice he doesn't have, that he'd rather stay, is beyond hope. "I can call a taxi," James offers. "You look done in."

"You're all flattery, you are." Robbie's smile tugs at James.

Don't. Be afraid. To be wrong.

"I'd like to be," he blurts out.

Robbie is obviously puzzled. James is a bit confounded as well, actually.

"Flattering. To you." Oh, this is coming out all wrong. "I mean, you deserve flattery." Very wrong. "You're too kind. And thoughtful. If anything ever happened to me, I'd want you to have my guitar." Dear Lord, he's babbling. "Thank you for everything."

Robbie stills. "Thank you for everything?" he echoes.

James is floundering. "Yes?"

"Are you leaving me lad?" Robbie asks quietly. 

Now James is puzzled. 

Robbie rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Nearly dying makes a man consider his life." He shrugs. "His choices." He leans closer. "It seems as though you've been drifting, James. I've noticed. Are you considering leaving the force?"

Oh, God no.

Blast and fuck and shit, James realises he said it aloud. With heartfelt horror, no less. And his stomach bottoms out when Robbie leans back, obviously satisfied with the words and tone.

Don't. Be afraid.

"That is the last thing on my mind," James says. "I wouldn't leave. You."

Robbie takes note of the emphasis on the last word. He furrows his brows, that thoughtful face he gets when he's analysing clues.

Don't. Be.

James reaches out and twines the fingers of one hand through Robbie's. "I couldn't."

Robbie doesn't pull away. Neither does he respond. He's just… there.

Don't, James thinks. His heart sinking.

Robbie squeezes gently.

Oh _fuck_. James is doomed.

"Sir," he says. "If you want me to go, please tell me now."

Robbie's expression is grave. As if he's afraid that James will flee regardless of the next words he chooses. "No. Don't go."

James gathers the tattered remains of his courage and leans forward to press his lips to Robbie's cheek.

Robbie doesn't pull away. Again. Instead, he turns his head and meets James' lips lightly.

"Fuck."

Robbie laughs quietly. "I don't think I'm quite ready for that." He brings his lips to James' again, more firmly this time. James indulges himself in just letting Robbie have his way with him.

If only.

Snogging Robbie is heaven on earth.

We worked together; dance and rite and spell. Arousing heaven and constraining hell.

Robbie is breathing a bit heavily, but still manages a chuckle. "You can't help quoting poetry, can you?"

James has obviously lost the filter between his head and mouth. Between his heart and head. Right out the window, it's gone.

"I'm not afraid," he says.

Robbie considers this for a moment. "Good."

*

_Part III: She kissed him first, and all the rest followed. (The Red Garden)_

Many nights -- many days too, but James counts everything from Night 1 -- later, James is cooking while Robbie considers which ale will go with the meal. 

"When did you know?" James hears himself ask. Oh, the things he has dared to do since Night 1. He knows now the taste of Robbie on his tongue. The ticklish places at Robbie's ribs. The steady pulse of his heart beneath James' ear as they sleep and the quick, bullet strokes of his breath as he comes apart in James' grasp.

"Know what?" Robbie asks, mulling over the ale. He taps a bottle, decided, and looks around to meet James' gaze.

"That you," James feels sixteen again. Awkward, unsure. "How you?"

"That I loved you?" Robbie supplies.

James tries desperately not to grin.

"From the moment I saw you."

"Liar," Rie says fondly. His infuriating shade, returned. His guide. _Their_ guide, perhaps. Even if she can show James the possible future, she is definitely rooted in Robbie's past. At the moment she's at the table, playing with the cutlery that James has set out. "He thought you were barmy. Sixes and sevens. Still does. Wonders why you'd fall for an over-the-hill copper when you could have your pick of lads or lasses."

James does grin now. Robbie has moved to the living room to put on some music, so James feels safe saying aloud, "I can see why he loves you."

Rie's eyes shimmer along with the rest of her. "I'm only part of what he loved, pet. His heart is big enough for both of us."

Aye, James thinks fondly. Robbie might make a Geordie of him yet. Robbie's heart is big enough.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere  
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing, my darling)

"You're burning dinner," Robbie observes mildly. "Stop thinking about literature."

For Robbie, he will.

**Author's Note:**

> James quotes Arthur Conan Doyle, _Psalms_ , medieval exorcism spells, Aleister Crowley ("we worked together"), e e cummings (title; poem at the end), and probably others that I have forgotten. The quotes at the section headings are from Gabriel García Márquez, William Shakespeare, and Alice Hoffman respectively.
> 
> I use the lowercase version of cummings' name as a gesture of humility; I am utterly grateful to everyone who has taken the time to respond to my forays into the world of _Lewis_ with such kindness. Cheers!


End file.
